I will tell you of the Truth. A Truth that is never remembered in the septembers of our lives. Sabra was the name of a poor neighbourhood in the southern outskirts of West Beirut. Shatila a refugee camp set up for the palestinians in 1949. Over the years the 2 areas became ever more mingled. And by the Autumn of 1982 their population had been swelled by Muslims fleeing the illegal occupation of South Lebanon by the Israeli Army.
On September the 15th 1982, the Israeli Military completely surrounded and sealed off the camps of the outside world. They set up observation posts on the roofs of nearby tall buildings to watch the events of the 16th, 17th and the 18th.
In the Evening of September the 16th 1982, with permission enguided by Israeli flares a group of large Militia armed with guns, knives and hatchets entered Sabra and Shatila.
During the following 36 hours they murdered 3,500 old men and woman and children. The figures are disputed. It’s difficult to count the souls of those
buried tangled in mass graves, or crushed under those very houses they sought refuge from within, or scattered face down on roadsides fleeing.
On witnessing the massacre we are told by journalists that their stories were written by the flies that would land on their notepads wearing BOOTS OF BLOOD.
and the warlord responsible for this ultraviolence
was later rewarded with the proud Prime Ministerial
Colours of his nation
To this day no-one has been prosecuted for this mass Murder. Those screams of the mute licked anguish and those Dark Colonial knights on the Beirut Suburb, have only amplified of every passing year.
Their martyr’s will continue to haunt us to learn,what is it that they will teach me? Never to trust that which is precious to those who cannot and will not value it. Learn, Learn to value the blood on those boot. Let me catch it and drop a promise. Promise to my children and their children after them. We’ll learn the truth, that our arms must thicken and our shoulders must broaden. So that we can bare the responsibilites of Protecting what is ours. To Survive those bloody corridors of Sabra and Shatila. A Childs head must only meet with the lips of its mother, not the edge of an Axe. The ones we love MUST be buried in White cloth, not under diesel caterpillar tracks of hate. The Shelters we build should not be used to crush the life they give sanction to beneath them and the Thickest Arms and the Broadest Shoulders are those of the Caliphs!